


to have & to hold

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, F/F, Joan as Governor; Vera works outside of WW, Marriage, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-10-10 01:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17416310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: In marital bliss, Vera Bennett-Ferguson acknowledges that her wife works long hours in an attempt to correct Wentworth's population of unfortunate inmates. Despite the long hours, loyalty brings them together. And hunger ensures a close proximity for the two.





	1. a private kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drippingwithsin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drippingwithsin/gifts).



> Months later, I've put out the first bit. Apologies for the long-awaited delay, friend!
> 
> The original request from drippingwithsin was: "Could you possibly write me one where Joan works at Wentworth and her wife, Vera does not? Vera has no idea what kind of monster she really married and also has not a clue why her wife sometimes comes home...frisky(possessive/animalistic) smelling like blood and victory" & where Vera " sees the strong sweet side while the rest see the freak. Maybe make it a two shot where in the next chapter she finally goes to a Wentworth function and the staff are staring at her all weird. Not quite believing what they're seeing. I can see Joan subtly being all possessive in front of a bunch of men and possibly Bridget."

On a vintage phonograph in the Ferguson-Bennett household, _The Tale of Tsar Saltan_ comes alive. Rimsky-Korsakov's opera fills the room occupied by one lonely woman. Her glass of wine remains untouched, the rim collecting metaphorical dust. Perched on the sofa with her knees curled taut against her abdomen, she has already helped herself to a meal: nothing too extravagant, just a Caesar salad with a grilled chicken breast. Here, Vera remains none the wiser to her wife’s sleuthing. 

As a professor, she has her syllabi completed, her e-mails accounted for, and her students’ papers of the last stretch of the semester promptly graded. Snug in her plain-Jane sweater and blue jeans, she casts her work aside. Neatens the pile on the glass coffee table. As a means of indulgence, she resorts to reading old fairy tales. Bluebeard’s wives haunt with suspicion. She can be a clever woman, gifted in her field, even. Shame on her for ignoring her intuition.  She loves Joan (respects her, trusts her) so she shuts the book, neglects the closed doors of Wentworth Detention Centre, and sips her wine.

On the mantle lies the framed memory of their wedding day. In the captured portrait, she takes her hand in hers, black suit contrasting a white frilly dress, pledging fealty in holy matrimony. Seduced by Joan’s charm and logic, Vera found herself swept in at the aftermath of a lonely dinner party; the rest is history. Love tethers and binds her.

Vera experiences a swell of excitement upon hearing the lock turn.

The red front door closes. Keys jingle before falling into the shallow bowl. Governor Ferguson goes through the motions of becoming Joan. Loosening the tie, the jacket sheds itself like snake skin.

So, she returns to her dark paradise.

Vera catches a whiff of designer perfume - Chanel or Dior  - warm, familiar, and comforting, applied to the pulse points. It cloaks blood’s metallic scent which is apt to linger alongside sweat’s tangy victory.

An expert at compartmentalization, Joan Ferguson keeps all facets of her life in perfect, working order. Another ruse is maintained. The burnt mattresses are forgotten, replaced by her latest success in this long game of chess. The warm colors of Joan’s flat betray the stern coldness displayed in the work force. Their wedding bands, separated by only a few yards now, glisten in the yellow light.

There’s an alteration in the systematic undressing. Tonight, she does not anoint her with a kiss to the crown of her head before retreating to the washroom to cleanse herself of prison filth. Oh, no. Tonight, she hungers and lusts like any other.

The power-play dynamics between Doyle and Smith procure a notable hunger: veritable challenges to be conquered and tamed. There’s satisfaction derived from manipulating the pawns. Ferguson understands them: the loners, the miscreants, the pariahs, the followers. On her pedestal, she’s gone and picked them all apart by exploiting petty feuds. Below the belt, she aches. A persistent throb aspires to be stroked, the flame ever consuming.

Late nights, Vera expects from Joan, either due to a call regarding the state of the prison or a fencing session to blow off excess steam. Joan towers behind her wife like an obelisk and as always, Vera finds her unable to resist, to caress, and to touch. She reaches out, managing to free the tails of her blouse from midnight black slacks. Shamelessly, blue-grey eyes trace the sliver of nylon beneath the raised hem of pressed, wool trousers. Guilt burns her cheeks, an inferno brewing inside her chest.

How wonderfully unassuming she is.

Joan, strictly Joan, looms in the background.

Tidiness, cleanliness, and perfect order are cast aside in favor of a more pressing compulsion: a burn that requires satiation. A hand grazes her throat. Vera swallows. It’s a teasing, playful gesture which Vera dismisses with a light titter. The Governor – Miss Ferguson to the inmates, simply Joan to her lover – takes the opportunity to stalk around the sofa and pull Vera into her all-consuming embrace.

Soothed by returning to their shared home, Joan’s pale hand settles on her waist, turning her prized dancer around, her face buried into the crook of her neck. How clean she smells. Fresh, pressed sheets, a trace of floral. Joan holds her closer, savoring it, how her spouse remains untainted, untouched, unpolluted by the vermin she correcTs.

In amorous possession, she inhales Vera’s scent, nose buried in the mess of chestnut curls that wriggle free from a messy, frizzy bun. She imagines carmine ringlets, dyed a deeper shade than blood, or black hair slanted and fine, but razor-sharp like the quick-witted tongue of Doyle.

“You’re affectionate this evening,” Vera observes.

“Mm. Am I?” She purrs. Rumbles into the shell of her ear. Joan draws the lobe into her teeth. A gentle graze resolved by a powerful nip.

Vera's breath catches. 

“You are,” she insists. “Always to me, with me.”

Pale, slender fingers trace the roadmap to her décolletage. Skin shifts, bone does not. They both want more.

With her movements reminiscent to an archaic beast, Joan claims her property, her bold figure pressed to her wife. Vera’s svelte body fits neatly against her curvaceous one. Compliments in the bedroom and now, on the leather sofa, no gloves necessary. Skilled hands glide across her wife. She frisks her in the here and now, without the grime, but all the glow. 

Coaxed to harden, nipples scratch against the lackluster sweater. It’s been hours since Vera removed the bra, refusing to be bound by wire discomfort. Joan caresses her pert breasts which heave from anticipation. Pupils dilate, blown out by the sun, an eclipse in the artificial light. 

She grips her a bit too tightly beneath her jawline which encourages a motley of bruises to be covered by some off-shade of foundation mixed with concealer. Vera thinks nothing of it, as Joan is wont to be carried away with these primal urges. She has needs; they both do. In fact, Vera’s breath hitches. She feels a flutter below the belly and leans into the iron grip.

“You were on my mind. You make for a tempTing distraction.”

In this case of possession, she seizes hold. Teeth graze and nibble at her ear. Her tongue slithers over her taut throat, flames to incite a fire within. Her honey-kissed skin tastes just as sweet. Gradually, slowly, she eats up obedience. She lures her in with a sacred kiss. One mouth flutters across another, soft and sensual until the biting promises a swift feast. 

“Don’t stop,” she whines over the building heat that sends hungry flames throughout her tiny body. Pressed against her, Joan never feels like ice.

This is the reason to come home.

Swayed by such charms, Vera’s cluelessness categorizes her other half as strong, sweet, and compassionate. With a hand rooted in her hair, she bends over. Knees hit the padded, leather cushions. A single, toned thigh, swathed by her trousers, keeps Vera in place. Incisors sink into the crook of her neck. Wordlessly, she claims her. Unfastens the button to her jeans and tugs down the insistent, jabbering zipper. She utters a low, deep, growling moan.

Levi’s form a wrinkled puddle on the ground, neglected in favor of her near compulsive touches. At the touch, heat shoots straight to her core. It’s like burning, her skin throbbing from the delicious sensation of being held. Petite, trembling fingers claw and grip the cushion for additional support.

When she mewls and moans, she sings such saccharine hymns. Heated breath scorches the shell of her ear. By the hips, Joan holds her. She plies this body to make it hers. Manipulates and molds all the angles until the woman within her grasp is a wet, aching mess. A tongue of fire licks her skin. She tastes her pulse. Drinks in her purity. Savors that fine shrine. Joan holds her wife close, her birdlike form crushed against her. Fluid strokes, bodies in motion, this vestal virgin belongs to Joan and Joan alone.

Against her skin, she feels her pinched vertebrae, bone strained and pushing at the flesh. Flushed, her shoulders tremble. Her fingers loosen their hold on her wife’s curvaceous hip. Still, she bucks and writhes against her, desperate for relief. 

The crook of Joan's arm meets that taut, scrawny throat. Restricts breath, muffles voice. She whets her near insatiable appetite. Growls like a wolf in a cruel pack, closing in on vulnerable prey. Any increased amount of pressure would be too sinister, too cruel, of a prison sentence. A little bit is murdered. This is her angel with bundled, quivering nerves.

Bent forward, dear Vera grips the tight, cushioned seat. Had animalistic impatience not seized hold, Joan would have adored taking her with the strap-on or even grant Vera the privilege to wear the cock. She delves her fingers inside, two crooked ones to orchestrate her mewling symphony.

On the brink, Vera rubs and touches herself, conscience growing weak in favor of pleasure. The bridge of her navy, satin panties are pushed aside to touch herself. Together, they move in sync like a team.

“Another,” her wife encourages. A cry of “please” becomes a keening beg, a plea sweeter than the music of a violin. She fucks her hard and fast, takes what's rightfully hers.

If only the curtains had been drawn open. If only they were in the Governor's office with the blinds slanted to reveal a salacious glimpse of Mrs. Ferguson-Bennett laying her claim over the desk, her lamb reduced to a partially clothed, ruinous mess. 

The thought gets her off.

A third finger slips inside, comforted by velvet, inner walls and a wetness that drives her deeper. In unison, hips buck. Vera tightens around her curled fingers that bring her home, that render her a mess, and sends her collapsing onto the furniture in dire need of a cleanse. Shivering, the grey sweater slides upright, revealing a glimpse of her curved spine and tightened stomach.

“Touch me, Vera. Now,” she commands in her soft contralto.

Vera acknowledges that such a commandment is a plea in disguise.

Inhaling deeply, the smaller woman buys herself a moment of time to reclaim herself. In the end, hooked on her flesh, she finds herself compliant. Pivoting on heel, she unfastens the buttons to a starchy, white blouse which reveals a glimpse of a black bra. She knows the panties match, hiding a nest of equally black curls, soon to succumb to grey. Cheeks tinted crimson, Vera obliges with half-lidded eyes.

Her fingertips coast along fluid and flesh, a soaked, swollen cunt in all its glory. She applies pressure to her clit, mirroring the ministrations of her own self-pleasure moments prior.

“There?”

Aroused, Joan allows for a faint, inarticulate sound to breeze past parted, glossy lips. 

“There,” she coaxes in a gravelly timbre, filled with longing, her tone worn and hoarse. Standing tall, one leg draped over the armrest, the Devil holds her close, pressed against her heaving chest.

Precise, timed strokes beckon the Governor’s defenestration. Her fingers slip inside; how she revels the sinking sensation. While she caresses her spouse, Vera has a penchant for biting her lip, her breathy groans muffled into Joan’s shuddering shoulder. Difficult to reach, Joan cranes her neck to grant her betrothed access. She kisses and sucks on a patch of flesh, knowing when to stop before ivory bruises. Joan hates marks upon her own skin, a cruel reminder of her vagrant youth.

Instead, she sucks on full breasts, partially swathed in the confines of a generous brassiere. 

As brilliant and as consuming as the moon, she wears an expression of pleasure, hooded eyes, flared nostrils, and mouth ajar albeit slightly. In her quietude, she unravels, clenching and luring her in impossibly deep. For a moment, her claws sink into Vera's shoulder and drags her closer, urges her to fuck her deeper, harder, for a second, unexpected release.

And so, the end finally comes.

Like the queens of old, the Governor savors this conquest. Delighted by her innocence, she basks in the glow. 

God from the Machine unwinds from her sadistic high. Sated, the Devil wets her lips. She settles on the sofa, drawing Vera into her lap. Her wife giggles, coltish legs kicked up. A rosy, flushed cheek caresses her chest. Joan holds her still, refusing to let go.

In the aftermath, cool fingertips trace the shuddering, fragile curve of her spine. Joan rests a hollow hand upon her wife’s anxious chest to soothe her. Beneath the touch, Vera eases her shoulders. Relaxes and falls lax.

“Let me draw you a bath.” She knows how sanitary Joan prefers to be. Without pause, she throws in, “I’ll dry clean your uniform tomorrow.”

Tempted by the wolf’s selfish bite, Vera reaches out, a finger to trace her spouse’s jawline. Lashes flutter, albeit briefly. Gratitude comes in a low, husky tenor.

“Thank you, Vera.”

Delighted, a spry woman breaks free from her possessor’s hold. A broad smile chaps her lips, stretches her cheeks until the pleasant ache compliments the rest of her. Enchanted, Vera draws this tamed beast in for a honeyed kiss. Softness suits her. The glisten and sparkle of the wedding band keeps them united, tied, faithful.


	2. a public sector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vera visits her spouse at the prison palace where she reigns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the extended wait on this one. Life's been pretty hectic as of late. I hope you enjoy this. :)

Steam rises from the freshly run bath. The memory of blood and sweat leaves her, replaced by powder and amber, honey and lilies. Tiny ripples, a handful of timelines and fatal scenarios that could have occurred between Joan and Vera, ricochet in the water.

At ease, the Devil reclines. She very nearly collapses, now consumed by the soft golden glow of pleasure. Her raven’s mane falls over the swell of her shoulders, drifting in the claw-footed tub. In her raised, self-righteous hand, Joan nurses a glass of Shiraz. The glass captures a glimmer of light, turning the wine as dark as blood. Content, she drinks her fill.

Dutiful wife that she is, Vera remains. She stays, kneeling by the tub, lone finger trailing along the rim. There’s an innocence to the gesture, her heart burning, ignited by gasoline and a holy love for her wife.

“You can join me,” Joan interrupts the reverent silence, quirking a brow. Her chalice runs empty, carefully poised on the ledge, out of reach. Her breasts heave, offering only a tantalizing glimpse that Vera watches, plush lips quivering with a full-blown sigh.

“I don’t mind watching.”

Vera’s pointed chin rests on the rim.

The Devil musters a faint half-smile: a rare accomplishment that fades quickly into the harsh night.

It’s that brutal, sincere honesty that touches someone as twisted as she.

Often reserved and emotionally stunted, Joan reaches out. A fingertip trails alongside the underside of her jaw. Coal black eyes note the flush that rises to Vera’s cheeks. Though the fire’s been stoked, she leans into the hand that feeds, hungry for affection. Lashes fluttered, diamond eyes squeezed shut, placated by the soft, delicate touch. Subservient to a fault, the lamb knows her place.

“Such a strange woman you are, Vera.”

Even her name sounds cast into a sonorous state of dreaming. A rumble of thunder in the still of their shared night. Vera, merely happy to be in the presence of the one she loves, flashes a lop-sided smile, gentle and true.

“You chose me.”

A moment of reflection ensues. Low and throatily, Joan hums.

“That I did.”

At long last, she rises. Rivulets spill from her Botticelli body, all curves and imperfections worthy of a masterpiece. She eases into a gossamer maroon robe which threatens to fall free from her heated, ivory skin. Speaking no further, they venture to bed, nude and sated and perfectly coiled around one another. A forearm nestles against Vera’s jaw, neither too harsh nor too soft, but just right.

Dawn comes. The morning routine resumes. The uniform, vantablack and pressed to perfection, slips into place.

Behold the Governor’s Panopticon.

The CCTV, crooked and corrupt, catches everything.

Actions define the make of a person, never a title. Governor Ferguson conducts herself with artifice inside her prison palace. In her wake, she leaves behind a trail of deceits. A titan of industry, a moving monument, makes her presence known. On the way to her personal hell-hole, her sworn office, she struts with distinction and purpose. The rhythmic click of the pen signs away her signature – the Devil’s fortified contract - on approved documentation. Mr. Jackson for all his flaws takes the clipboard away.

Private and public spheres simply do not mix - until now.

A bagged lunch passes through security, no deceit to its concoction. A prepped meal of lemon-zested chicken with veg in Tupperware with a red lid lives within its plastic confines. With it comes Governor Joan Ferguson’s wife. The bag rustles within her nervous, clawed grasp. Joan prefers to make her own meals, but Vera is someone she trusts so she allows the sentimental gesture.

“Excuse me?” A petite woman bobs her head. At least her darling Vera exercises proper table manners. “May I-?”

Suddenly, these vacant halls seem much less gray.

In awe, she marvels at the sight of the prison complex. This place would swallow her whole. From what Vera sees and hears, the prison’s run as efficiently as it is successful. Her mousy brown hair falls in soft waves, rippling beneath the unholy, fluorescent prison glow. 

Even while visiting at Wentworth, there exists a contrast in outfits: Vera comes to her in loose, flowing garments, a goddess of spring in her blouse and skirt while impervious Joan remains rigid, conformed, impeccably tailored. Her Persephone waltzes in for a temporary stay.

Vera tries not to be bothered by the multitude of eyes searing into her foolish, fragile curved. She rambles not to pass the time, but to compensate for her nerves, shrinking in front of the crowd despite all the lectures she’s held and the conferences she has attended.

“I brought you lunch. Oh! And your suits are being dry-cleaned.”

The leather watch on her wrist thrums, an anniversary gift from her devoted wife. Smirking, the Governor saunters past the gawking buzzards. In smug satisfaction, she reaches for her archaic offering.

“What a pleasant surprise. Thank you, Vera.”

There is an invasion of personal space though her wife doesn't seem to mind. Vera warms and grins in earnest, as radiant as a summer evening.

Resident forensic psychologist Bridget’s Westfall’s strut drips with bravado, faux confidence weakening until she comes to a standstill amongst the sea of conspirators: a modern day Brutus, Cassius, and Judas all lined up. Even her blonde bob dulls a tad.

This hall is now their stage. A firm, pale hand hovers behind the curve of her quivering back.

“Erm, Joan…” Vera clears her throat, a bit bothered by the commotion in the background.

Power stirs a throbbing need within her. She makes note to ask for professional opinions during private meetings.

“They don’t matter,” Joan promises whilst stooping down, an insidious whisper in the shell of her ear which Vera believes. “You and I, we’re a team.”

Should she inquire, Vera would even shine her shoes, captivated by her dignified beauty.

The Governor, too, notices the eyes in the room. She represses the animalistic desire to lay her claim in her office. There will be another time for that – perhaps a third shift where ghosts lay to waste in isolation.

A thumb roves along the inside of her wrist. Traces the network of veins. For Vera, she offers tenderness, never weakness.

Mystified, Westnull attempts to decode the interaction. Her sharp hip cants to the side. Cinched, high-waisted trousers cease all movement, the wrinkles stagnant. Designer clothing only goes so far. Undoubtedly, the cogs in her mind whir and turn for an internalized psychoanalysis.

“Have some integrity, gentleman. Miss _WesTfall_. Your judgment is not suitable for the workplace. Hold your reservations lest you seek ruin.” A dismissive wave of the hand ensues.

At work, the Governor tests the frailty of male bravado. She kisses her wife on the crown of her head. Channing’s oily smirk vanishes. His bald head gleams, a worm drowning in mud, his suit and lust devouring him in rapid succession. Mr. Fletcher nudges Will in the side a tad too roughly.

Men like them seldom learn. A Medusa all they wish to behead: these failed Perseus replicas. Women, too, possess devilish cunning. The Governor hasn’t an empathetic bone in her body. She cups her dearly beloved by the jawline, but has her by the heartline. The grand possessor acts. Vera looks up in every sense of the word.

Miss Westfall experiences a pang of envy, swept under by the furrow of her brow and her degree of professionalism. Psychology is the science of magician’s and homeopathy. 

Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, thick forearms swing by Matthew Fletcher’s sides. The Neanderthal has the indecency to gawk, having neither bedside manner nor common human decency. His shoulders hunch, poor posture bound to wear on his joints in due time.

Will’s bleary cocaine eyes don’t quite focus, as if in a state of active disbelief, the clipboard wavering in his calloused hand.  They blink and blink and blink. Mr. Jackson, consumed by his grief and guilt, is far too preoccupied with his own predicament. Rose grows distant and the cops, more insistent.

“Come off it,” Channing rasps before pivoting on heel, refusing to bear witness to the perturbing sight furthermore.

Few are privy to the affections of Joan Ferguson. Two fingers slide under her jawline. The peck on the lips lingers. With bated breath, Vera closes her eyes and reciprocates. Seldom is the Governor one to allow sensuous gestures in the workplace as well as before the public, prying eye. 

A hand on the small of her back suggests, “I have you. You’re mine.”

Vera thinks nothing of this.

Sweetness intimidates those who expect it least. Nefarious scheming looms in the back of her mind. Always the dictator, the Governor barks at her pawns who threaten to wobble. All of the men turn to stone.

“Something the matter?” The Governor calls out to her onlookers. “Do quit your gawking and get back to work.”

That mongrel, Mr. Jackson, appears stupefied with his mouth ajar.

“Let’s arrange for lunch in my office for the next time, mm?”

It’s a question as much as it is an order and a promise.

In comprehension, Vera nods. She relinquishes her temporary hold.

“I’ll see you at home, Joan. I love you.”

According to Vera, there is nothing wrong with Joan. Though the woman is far removed from an ideal, Vera sees few faults, if any.

“And I, you." Her fondness lingers for a split second before fading. The inmates needn't see it, her staff needn't see it. Her crux remains hers. "Run along now, Vera,” she rasps, almost mournful to let her go. The bag dangles limply, begging to be opened, to be split open like a ritual sacrifice in anticipation of consumption.

Vera offers one of those shy smiles as though she understands. She tucks a stray, stubborn curl behind her ear. The mouse of a woman scampers off, a bounce to her stride. 

Full cheeks glow a healthy, rosy shade, a crooked grin in place. There’s a girlish bounce to her step as Vera makes her way home. Ever the voyeur, she watches this magnificent departure. Vera’s perfume, vanilla and sea salt, lingers in the air, a temptation to be had

So there goes Koschei’s death. Her kingdom is not their shared home, but the prison which belongs to her and her alone. There’s work to be done during her tireless prison reign.


End file.
